Our Tree

In our tree I stand. My spaceship
will arrive. At some point.

My three eyes scan through. The
plastic toys that built our tree.

Severed heads are my roots. Feeding
on past lives. Passing down their lived

myths. The nymph that Erysichthon
killed—cutting down the last standing

tree. The plastic double of that
last—erstwhile tree. It’s replacement

votive offerings. In 3D printing
reimagined. Snatched from my kids’

toys. Proudly offered in their selfless
world saving efforts. Our mismatched

totem extends its love. Like an olive
tree branch. Before we move

elsewhere. On a spaceship
yet to arrive.